


Tabula Rasa

by obstinatrix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, post-series 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 16:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Post series 6, Thursday comes to see Morse's new house. It's a bit of a mess, but Thursday's sure he can fix it. Morse wants to believe him, the way he's always believed Thursday, but he isn't sure he can any more.





	Tabula Rasa

"Place'll be nice, I reckon," Thursday said, "when you've had a chance to do a bit to it. Lick of paint, for starters. Rip the floor up, maybe."

 

He sounded so hopefully optimistic, almost pleadingly so. It was a tone Morse had heard more in his voice over the past two weeks than in all the years of their previous acquaintance, and something about it made his chest ache. _Trying._ Thursday was trying so hard, and Morse could no longer believe in the sustaining truth of his effortless goodness.

 

Morse's hand went to the back of his neck, a nervous tic. He supposed the place _could_ be nice eventually -- it had strong bones; he wouldn't have bought it if he'd doubted that -- but he'd been half-waiting for Thursday to point out all the death that had happened here, leaving a stain of sadness on the walls beneath the scrawled graffiti. Then again, perhaps it was stupid to assume Thursday, so long a soldier, sentimental on that score. People died everywhere.

 

"Well, I'll paint over the mess on the walls, obviously. But I'm not much of a decorator."

 

Thursday seemed to seize this with both hands. "I could help you out there. If you just want white, we've got buckets of the stuff in my shed from the last time I did the ceilings."

 

Morse looked at him. The hair at his temples was coming in grey now, like the first frosts of winter. His eyes were very dark; Morse had always noticed it, but had never before seen how earnest they were. Thursday had never turned this look on him before, a plea for forgiveness which was somehow as irresistible as it was naked.

 

He said, "All right, yeah, if you've got the time. That'd be great."

 

**

 

Thursday arrived on Saturday afternoon with a car full of brushes and tins and a sort of Dunkirk spirit, grinning as he hauled his bits and pieces out of the boot. "Give me a hand with this, will you, Morse? That's it -- careful."

 

"Didn't Mrs Thursday mind, you doing this for me on your day off?" Morse took the proffered armful of brushes and trays and watched Thursday's face carefully.

 

Carefully, too, Thursday betrayed nothing. "Oh, you know Win -- doesn't like me under her feet, not all weekend. She sends her love, by the way." The muscle in his jaw was tight, but it would only have been visible to someone who, like Morse, knew him very well. Morse couldn't decide whether he admired it or hated it, what a good liar Thursday could be when he set his mind to it. The rub was, he was (Morse thought) lying to himself most of the time as well.

 

Once inside, Thursday threw his coat over the room's lone chair and set about putting down dustsheets with workmanlike efficiency. He was wearing a blue shirt that had seen better days, open at the collar, and it occurred to Morse that he had never before seen Thursday without a tie unless something was very wrong.

 

"Painting clothes," Thursday said. He'd felt Morse looking, then. "Speaking of which, better get that jumper off, or you'll have to take it out of circulation."

 

"Oh, right. Yes, good point."

 

He struggled out of it, static clicking as it went over his head. When he re-emerged, Thursday was still looking at him, a slightly peculiar expression on his face, and Morse felt suddenly self-conscious of his bare arms and throat above the neck of his t-shirt. Ridiculously, he was blushing. Stupid -- as if Thursday, _Fred Thursday_ , would ever look at him like that; salt of the earth Thursday, predictable as the sunrise.

 

It seemed only yesterday he'd believed that -- and a lifetime ago. Morse crossed his arms and pushed the thought away, the contradiction too heavy to weigh on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

 

He said, "Come on then, you're the expert. Where do we start?"

 

**

 

They painted all afternoon. Thursday did, as promised, know exactly what he was doing: Morse was content to let himself be guided, filling trays and stippling edges and holding the ladder while Thursday did the ceiling ("needs a professional, this bit"). As the hours drew on and the light faded, the tension in his gut seemed to be fading too, even as his arms and shoulders and back began to protest all this harsh treatment. He couldn't understand how decorators did it, arms stretched over their heads for hours on end, when he could barely manage an afternoon. Still, something about the physical intensity was soothing, his mind going blank with it, and the triumph of finishing the first coat was a sort of animal pleasure.

 

"That's that," Thursday said, putting his brush down and stepping back. He was smiling, and Morse could see at once that this was a proper smile, simple and uncomplicated. Rare enough these days that Morse couldn't help but smile back.

 

"First coat, anyway," he pointed out.

 

Thursday scoffed. "Let a man have his little victories, will you? We can do the second coat tomorrow; this has got to dry first. If my neck will forgive me my trespasses."

 

He curved his right arm across his chest, wincing, until his hand found the juncture of left shoulder and neck, inside the open collar of his shirt. Morse felt a reflexive pang of pain, watching Thursday squeeze the tight muscle there.

 

"Yeah, it's hell on the shoulders, this painting lark. Thank God it's not my day job." Morse craned his neck to the side until the vertebrae clicked and then breathed out, hard, thinking. If the painting was done for today, Thursday would probably be looking to go home to his wife and his tea, but Thursday was just beginning to feel like Thursday again and Morse, selfishly, didn't want to relinquish him. "Do you want a drink?"

 

Thursday lifted his eyes, pretending to mull it over, and then grinned. "Go on then."

 

If there was a pathetic irony in the fact that Morse couldn't offer a chair, but did have two varieties of whisky on hand, Thursday refrained from pointing it out. The mattress on the floor was perfectly big enough for both of them to sit on, cupping half-full tumblers. Not able to lean against the wall for obvious reasons, they leaned forward instead, chests to knees. Morse had put the record player on -- unobtrusive Mozart -- and Thursday seemed content to listen, head quirked slightly to one side, cheek propped on his hand.

 

"It _will_ be nice in here," he said, scanning the ceiling as if critiquing his own handiwork. "Need to get you some furniture, though. Dossing on the floor won't do your back any good, and if you don't look after it now, by the time you get to my age, you'll wish you had."

  
Morse laughed. "I think it's already done for." He set his tumbler down and reached for the bottle. "This is taking the edge off, though."

 

Thursday snorted. "Well, there you are, you see. Youth is bliss."

 

He was rubbing his neck again. There was, Morse noted idly, a freckle just to the left of his spine. It suddenly seemed very odd to Morse that he could have known Thursday so well for so long and yet never known about that freckle. He looked at Thursday's long fingers, broad palm, and felt the warm burn of the whisky descend into his chest.

 

"Here." He nudged Thursday's hand away. "Let me. If you've done your back in painting my flat, it's the least I can do." He set his hands on Thursday's shoulders, over the shirt, and pressed gently.

 

Thursday hissed through his teeth. Slightly to Morse's surprise, he dropped his hand without complaint and let his head loll forward, which reassured and worried in equal measure. Perhaps Sam had done this for his dad, five minutes after a long day and a beer in recompense, and so Thursday thought nothing of it.

 

Perhaps Thursday would never think anything of it. The thought sang through Morse, resonating at a pitch he could not define.

 

He put his hands inside Thursday's shirt. He wasn't -- wasn't even slightly drunk, but still without the whisky he would not have done it. Thursday jerked a little -- _thinking something of it_ \-- but then the muscles in his shoulders softened under Morse's palm and Morse felt his pulse begin to flutter in his throat.

 

"All right," Morse said, soft. "How's this?"

 

He squeezed, carefully at first, and then harder, listening to the shifts of Thursday's breath. He ran his thumbs up the insides of Thursday's shoulder blades, pressing firmly, and then knuckled either side of his spine. Really, it was almost rough; there was nothing teasing or artificial in it for Thursday to complain about. Morse kept his grip utilitarian and matter-of-fact; it was nothing to Thursday if his gaze kept sliding to that lone freckle demarcating the uppermost vertebra of the spine. Morse wanted to put his mouth there so fiercely that, for a moment, he almost thought he'd done it.

 

He dropped his hands too quickly, clearing his throat. "There you are. Better?"

 

Thursday breathed out hard, turned his head. He looked, Morse thought, languid, almost sleepy, the coal-dark eyes heavy lidded. "Much, actually. Thanks. Want me to do for you?"

 

"You don't have to." Probably it was a terrible idea. The whisky had taken root, now; Morse felt vaguely light all over, except where he felt pleasantly heavy. Even if, from Thursday, it was nothing more than the friendly helping hand he thought he'd accepted from Morse. "It's my walls that are the culprit, after all."

 

"Don't be daft," said Thursday, reaching for him. "You'll feel better."

 

He did, of course. Thursday didn't shift to sit behind him, just half-turned and set his hands on Morse's shoulders, and though his touch was brisk and powerful, it was -- still touch. Thursday's thumbs rubbed over his collarbones as his fingers dug into the muscle at the back of his neck, and it struck Morse that he couldn't remember the last time someone else's hands had been on him without the intention of violence. As Thursday's hands moved, Morse watched his face and thought of how the Thursday house had seemed, so tense and still, and wondered whether Thursday's skin ached for it too.

 

He hadn't meant to lean forward -- sag forward, really -- but Thursday was good at this, strong hands and blunt fingers, and he smelled of pipe tobacco and another time, when things made sense. Sooner or later Morse found that his cheek was on Thursday's shoulder and Thursday's hand was on the back of his neck, warm, holding him.

 

"Morse," Thursday said. His voice was low, soft, as if he thought Morse might bolt. Instead, Morse brought his arms up, gingerly at first, around Thursday's back and, when he felt Thursday's hand slide into his hair, gripped him hard.

 

"Sir, I --"

 

"All right -- hush, now. You're all right." Thursday's other arm was around him now, holding firm, and Morse felt abruptly dizzy. It was as if Thursday was the only thing anchoring him to the earth; Thursday's big hands travelling over his back, gripping his shoulders; Thursday palming the back of his head so that his scalp tingled. Thursday's skin was warm through his shirt and while part of Morse knew that this was not normal and could not be explained away, it felt quite the opposite of unnatural. Morse shifted his knees, trying to eradicate the distance between them, and Thursday gentled him onto his side until they were pressed together, chest to knees.

 

"I've got you," Thursday said. His voice was firm, but Morse could feel him trembling. He tucked one knee between both of Thursday's almost instinctively, hitching closer. This was Thursday, and inasmuch as it seemed incredible, it was also Thursday that he needed most, Thursday's solidity and strength that kept the world on its axis.

 

He was hard. The realisation didn't send panic arcing through him as perhaps it should have done. Thursday was, too; he could feel the hot press of it against his thigh, but all that seemed secondary to the matter at hand, the need for closeness and for things to be right again. In the end, human beings were only animals, with animal instincts which overlapped and conflicted with each other. His body wanted Thursday's proximity, and couldn't quite work out exactly how, that was all.

 

"Sir…" He pushed his hands into Thursday's hair and gripped it, feeling its thickness spill between his fingers. Thursday's body curved against his and Morse leaned into him, pressing his face to Thursday's neck. The scent of him, soap and smoke and an edge of paint, made Morse's chest clench painfully, it was so familiar.

 

Suddenly, he couldn't get close enough. Nothing was close enough. His fingers sought out the hot skin of Thursday's back, under his shirt, and dimly he realised that Thursday was pulling at Morse's clothes too, button-zip-belt undone one-handed and the t-shirt catching painfully on Morse's chin as it was tugged off. Then Thursday was half-lifting him, arms curved around him to settle him straight on the mattress, and Morse was struggling for air, trying to make sense of it. Morse knew what he was; had always known the way he looked at men wasn't right. But Thursday…surely, for Thursday, this wasn't…

 

Thursday kissed his chest, the dip above his belly, the crest of his hipbone. He was breathing hard, and when Morse looked down, he could see the curve of his own hard prick flat against his stomach, Thursday's breath feathering against it. Thursday's eyes were closed, long-lashed. It occurred to Morse suddenly that he must have been beautiful in youth, those eyes and that mouth, although really the thought of Thursday any way other than the way he was made Morse's gut clench uncomfortably. Other men grew up, grew older, changed; Thursday simply _was._

 

Then Thursday opened his eyes, and Morse's throat went dry.

 

His mouth was soft, careful as it skimmed the length of Morse's prick and then nuzzled at the crown where Morse was wet. Bafflingly, patently, he knew what he was doing, curling his tongue around the head of Morse's cock until Morse cried out and grasped his hair, back arching. When Thursday took him in fully, the slide of it was smooth and slow and Morse was fighting for breath at the sensation and the thought of it: Thursday's mouth around his prick, not learning, but remembering.

 

Well, Morse thought recklessly, if Thursday could do this --

 

"Come here." He tugged at Thursday's shoulders, and then at his hair when shoulder-tugging didn't prove enough of an incentive. When Thursday lifted his head, his mouth was wet and Morse shivered, his thumb moving almost of its own accord to touch the curve of it. Thursday smiled.

 

"All right?"

 

"Here."

 

At last, Thursday moved, letting Morse pull him up and on top of him, his weight bearing Morse down firmly into the mattress. Their legs intertwined and Morse shivered at the press of his damp cock to Thursday's, caught in the humid space between their bodies. He'd wanted this, to be trapped and held under Thursday, but more than that, if Thursday could stand to put his mouth on Morse's prick, for God's sake --

 

He lifted his face. Thursday kissed him at once, and Morse clutched at him, pulling Thursday down hard against him. If there had been only one thing he could have asked for, it would have been this, Thursday's tongue in his mouth and Thursday's big hands on his face and the tightness building in his abdomen as Thursday held him down, shifting against him.

 

"Morse --" Thursday pulled back, mouthing at the curve of his neck, and Morse let him, arm curving around Thursday's shoulders as he panted for breath, every muscle in his body tense. He gripped Thursday's hips, and Thursday moved into the touch, grinding down against him. He could feel the hot weight of Thursday's cock leaking slickly on his stomach and the back of his neck was damp with sweat. His thighs were trembling, and he seized Thursday by the hair to pull him back again to Morse's mouth, demanding kiss after kiss as the heat banked between them.

 

He came like a punch, biting Thursday's mouth, ankles locked around the backs of Thursday's calves and both arms around Thursday's neck. Thursday held him a moment, tensed and breathless, and then began to kiss him again, and Morse let him, their mouths clinging easy and open until Thursday gripped him hard and spilled on his stomach. He was silent, or almost, and Morse kissed his cheekbone without thinking, then the strongly arched curve of his eyebrow.

 

They lay in the twilight for what seemed a long time, breathing. At length, Thursday rolled off to the side and rubbed a hand over his face.

 

"I should be off, I suppose. Win'll be wondering where I am, else."

 

Outside, it was almost dark. Morse pulled himself up onto his elbow and blinked. "Yes, of course. Er…"

 

Thursday followed his gaze to the painting paraphernalia stacked against the far wall. "I'll leave that, shall I? Back tomorrow."

 

He was buttoning his shirt. Morse felt suddenly very aware that he was naked from the waist up, and felt around for his abandoned t-shirt. "You don't have to. I mean. If Mrs Thursday will mind."

 

"I want to," Thursday said. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to put a hand on Morse's shoulder, but thought better of it. He stood instead, groaning about his knees. Morse got up too, fastening his trousers. Suddenly the air in the room felt very cold, and he shivered.

 

"We'll fix it," Thursday said, putting on his coat. He glanced around the room. "That'll be nearly dry, now; just the first step. We'll get it sorted, don't you worry. Tomorrow."

 

Thursday's footsteps on the stair were heavy and familiar as they descended. From the window, Morse watched him get into his car and drive away. Even in the dark, he noticed now, the graffiti the squatters had left on the wall was still just visible through the paint. He wondered how many coats it would take to get rid of it.

 

Worries for tomorrow, Morse told himself, and closed the curtains.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
